This isn’t me.
This isn’t how I act.
This isn’t who I am.
I’m not the type of man who lacks self-control. Not when I’m out from behind the keys. Not on the sidewalk outside my home. Not with one of my children asleep in the bedroom that looks down over me.
She arches back, ass pressing against me even tighter. Her pussy clamps down unforgivingly around me. A voice I can’t claim is my own growls, “Not stopping until you come on my fucking finger.”
And it’s just one finger. To call her tight would be borderline negligent. My hand that strayed from the car door, my hand that should’ve never landed on her thick, deep caramel thighs, my hand that allowed my finger to steal one stroke of her clit before shoving itself into her lacy thong, is suffocating.
Her head bows back and bumps against my shoulder. I latch my teeth onto her neck like a predator waiting for their prey to submit.
None of this is staged. Rehearsed. None of this is some sting operation with me waiting in the wings to expose the filth that plagues the world. This isn’t a moment waiting to be presented to a judge and jury.
I am the judge.
I am the jury.
Consuming her is my crime.
I’m guilty. Two fucking words that continuously change my life.
I’m guilty of protecting the innocent.
Now I’m guilty of wanting to destroy it.
Her body buzzes, my drenched finger now gliding back and forth between its claim on her clit and its ceaseless averring that all of her orgasms belong to me now. She drops her jaw wider in desperation to accommodate the silent screams seeping from her parted, thin lips. On instinct, I readjust myself to lick the sounds straight off her tongue.
Who am I?
Who is this?
What’s causing me to behave like a fucking barbarian? What poison is under her jean skirt, under her goddamn tongue, that’s turning me into an addict. Into a fucking animal.
I’m not an animal.
I hunt them. For work. For sport. And as soon as she comes on my fingertip, I will use the same fingertip to hunt her. Hunt the history she thinks she’s kept hidden. Hunt those lies people always deny exist. Hunt every little detail until I no longer feel like the beast defiling the powerless. She will be another trophy in more than one way.
Her breath hitches. Her long neck quivers. The butterfly tattoo right under her jawbone flutters its wings from the rapid beating of her pulse. My cock strains itself from the wedged position between her pleasantly round ass cheeks. Ass cheeks that belong constantly filling my hands. Ass cheeks that need to be reddened repeatedly. She winds her arm backwards and rocks me against the increasingly frantic movement. I push. She pulls. I groan. She whimpers. Her eyes squeeze shut and her pussy pleads for mercy I refuse to deliver.
I’m not this raw.
I’m not this fucking savage.
“Come,” my voice rattles against her ear.
The feeling of her wetness leaks through the gym shorts I’m wearing. Being so close yet not close enough riles a new madness I can’t control. One I never even fucking knew existed.
The heat and harshness of my tone clash with the sweet, slick sound of her pussy seconds from submitting.
“You come when I say.” My unequivocal declaration is from behind gritted teeth. “You belong to me now.”
She darts her bottom lip between her teeth to imprison the whimpers as she fulfills my demand. Her pussy sucks the digit in deeper and deeper while her ass continuously rocks backward, commanding I cave. Commanding my orgasm’s release. She trembles endlessly against me with such force my soul shakes. The unusual feeling wobbles my knees. Knocks out the remaining air in my lungs.
In the faintest voice, she whispers, “Come…”
Without consent, my cock crumbles, hot spurt after spurt staining my shorts, streaming down my swaying legs.
There’s an unmistakable hum from the seemingly sweet woman who stole from me what it is I was stealing from her. She angles her head at me to flash me a deceptively innocent expression.
Did I just become her prey?
Our eyes stay locked as she slowly removes my hand. Once her jean skirt is back where it belongs, she opens her car door, causing me to take a step back, something I should’ve done the minute we got into this position. Something I should’ve done before I switched on a primal part of my brain I’ve never had the balls to. Something I should’ve done the minute I didn’t bother to calculate the possible consequences of pursuing something with passion instead of purpose.
She sticks the keys in the ignition, smile instantly sending my head reeling. “Buenas noches, Holden. Look forward to working with you.”
The door shuts but my conscience doesn’t.
This isn’t me.
This isn’t the man I am.
This isn’t the man I spent over a decade becoming.
This isn’t how things are supposed to unfold.
My children deserve better, even if I don’t.
The street lamp closest to my two story suburban home flickers like that of an interrogation room. It mocks. Questions. Challenges for the truth.
This was nothing more than a onetime mistake. I will bury this dirty, little secret like all the others. Erase it. Delete it. Continue on the campaign of chastity it appears I took after their mother died.
I won’t fuck the nanny no matter how loud the monster inside of me is screaming to. I won’t give into temptation like I have in the past.
I won’t ruin their lives.
Not again.